When It Matters
by 2Old4This2
Summary: When an operation goes wrong, you better have a partner you can trust. Unfortunately Diana is having a problem trusting Neal. Can she get over it before someone gets killed.
1. Chapter 1

_First, an unnecessarily long authors note: I started this because I was having trouble with my other story and thought this would be easier. Not. This is my first venture into the hurt/comfort genre and I must have re-written it 10 times. It's based on the very end of _Checkmate _and the look Diana gives Neal when he walks into the office to confess all. She just didn't look very trusting to me._

**When it Matters**

A _White Collar _Fanfiction

_Disclaimer: _White Collar_ is owned by Jeff Eastin and USA Network. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made._

Chapter 1

The hands pinning her arms behind her back are large and strong. Very strong. Diana struggles against them, but he only tightens his grip. She's sure there are bruises. At least the M.E. will know she was held against her will when they find her body, she thinks unhappily.

"Agent Diana Berrigan," Arthur Markus hisses through oddly tiny teeth. He glances down at her credentials which he plucked from her inside jacket pocket. "FBI." He looks appraisingly at her. "Your accent was good, quite the proper Brit, but you couldn't sell the whole unsavory expert role. You have no idea how to authenticate a manuscript."

Of course she doesn't, because that's Caffrey's job. He was supposed to pose as another buyer and authenticate the manuscript. But Caffrey didn't show, leaving Diana to muddle through the procedure as best she can. Obviously she didn't do a very good job, because Markus figured her out almost immediately.

"This has been a very disappointing afternoon," Markus continues. "One of my prospective buyers turns out to be an FBI agent, and the other doesn't even bother to show up." He clicks his tongue with displeasure. "Is it possible your fellow agents outside have scared him away?"

"There are no other agents. I'm here by myself."

"The surveillance van is parked one block north," a new voice says from behind them, "and they make me very uncomfortable. I hope we can do this quickly."

"Mr. Halden, you're late." Both Arthur Markus and Diana Berrigan turn to look at the newcomer.

Neal Caffrey raises a disdainful eyebrow. "The world can't always follow your personal schedule, Mr. Markus. The cops in the van forced me to take a detour."

"They're not cops, they're FBI, just like her." He tips his head in Diana's direction.

"What are you going to do with her? You aren't going to let her go? That would be unbelievably stupid." Neal's voice is cool and controlled.

"That is a problem," Markus sighs irritably. "I believe the most efficient action is to kill her."

Neal grimaces in distaste. "Right now? I was hoping to complete this purchase in a timely matter." He expresses his own irritation. "Can't you lock her in a closet or something?"

"Are you squeamish, Mr. Halden?"

"I don't like the mess," is the quick response. "I want to see the item. A treasure, if you're telling me the truth; original pages from _Don Juan_. Byron has always been one of my favorites."

Markus shoots Neal an angry look, then turns to the man still holding Diana. "Take the agent down to the storeroom, we can deal with her later. We don't want to keep Mr. Halden waiting," he sneers.

Diana's arm is jerked up as her captor moves her towards a flight of stairs. She tries once more to free herself, and her arm is twisted behind her back in response. The last thing she sees before they go down the stairs is Neal Caffrey and Arthur Markus bent over several yellowed sheets of paper, a faint smile curving Neal's lips as Markus points out a feature on one of the pages.

ooOoo

Diana paces the edges of her small prison, looking for a way out. The walls are cinder block, the door steel. A single light in the ceiling reveals a collection of cardboard storage boxes – and the fact that there's no handle on her side of the door. She kicks at the empty boxes, hoping to reveal some sort of weapon she can use. She only succeeds in stirring up dust. Coughing, she seats herself on the upended wooden packing crate. It is all an exercise in futility anyway; her hands are cuffed behind her back.

The clammy air and close quarters of her prison weigh on Diana. She shivers involuntarily then rattles the cuffs around her wrists, hoping they might miraculously pop open. They don't, of course. Caffrey, she knows, would have them open in seconds.

Caffrey.

She doesn't want to believe Neal sold her out, but it certainly looks that way. He was late for the meet, he gave away the location of the van, and he had her locked in a closet. He was probably out there right now making his purchase – using FBI money, no less!

Six months ago she wouldn't have thought any of this was possible, but that was before Neal's grand deception with the stolen art. He'd lied to all of them for weeks and that was something Diana was having a hard time working around.

Jones doesn't seem to mind working with Caffrey. He acts like the fact that Neal helped Elizabeth get away from Keller negates the fact that it was Neal's actions that caused her to be taken in the first place. It must be a guy thing, Diana thinks – male bonding or something. And Peter? Somehow, even through his obvious hurt and betrayal, he sees something in Neal that has him struggling to keep their partnership alive. But then Peter has always seen something in Neal that none of the rest of them do.

Diana finds she can't forgive and forget as quickly as her teammates. If Neal could lie so easily about one treasure, he can certainly lie about others. Which leaves Diana wondering if the man her life now depends on has her back – or if he has his own agenda?

Diana stands and prowls the edges of the small room. It's better than sitting still, waiting for whatever Arthur Markus plans to do with her. Markus removed her audio/GPS broadcaster at the same time he took her badge. He must have some way of convincing the boys in the van it's still working, otherwise they would already be storming the building. An audio loop, maybe? But shouldn't Agent Timmerman and his crew have figured it out by now? Peter and Jones certainly would have. She begins to appreciate Peter Burke's philosophy: If you want it done right, do it yourself.

Of course, Diana thinks sourly, Timmerman only wanted Caffrey for this assignment. Peter forced Diana on the other agent so she could keep an eye on Neal. Yeah, and that worked out really well, hadn't it? Damn Caffrey anyway!

As her circuit brings her near the door to the storeroom, she freezes in her tracks. She stares at the door, head cocked to one side in a move reminiscent of Satchmo. There it is again – a faint popping sound. Gunfire? The sound is too muffled for Diana to be sure. As she waits, she hears rattling sounds coming from the door lock. She backs away, every muscle tense.

The door swings slowly inward, and Neal Caffrey slips inside, pulling the door almost shut behind him. She watches him warily as he slides his lock picks back into his pocket.

"Are you okay?" he asks soundlessly.

"Yeah." Her response is equally quiet. He moves behind her; she feels his hands against hers as he fiddles with the handcuffs, then her hands are free. Rubbing her wrists, she looks at Caffrey. It certainly seems like he's on her side.

"Was that a gunshot?" she asks, moving to the partially open door. He moves close behind her.

"Yes," he breathes. "Just once I'd like to do one of these jobs without guns." He is so near her his speaking ruffles her hair.

Diana listens at the door for a moment. Hearing nothing, she cautiously looks around into the dimly lit hallway.

"Anyone?" Neal asks.

"Nope. Do you have a gun?" Diana asks hopefully. A raised eyebrow is his only response.

"I did manage to get this." He pushes something into her hand. It's her badge. "I thought you might want it back."

"Thanks." She turns and gives him a ghost of a smile. "We need to get out of here. Which way?" she asks.

"That way." Neal points around her to a dusty set of stairs.

They are halfway up the stairs when loud voices reach their ears. They flatten themselves against the wall, listening, but ready to run.

"Damn! She's loose!" an unfamiliar voice calls out.

"Which way'd she go?" another accomplice asks.

"Don't know. Wait." Diana and Neal wait too. "There are footprints on the stairs."

Neal gives Diana a hard shove, sending her up the rest of the stairs. He follows close behind her as they find themselves in a large warehouse, filled with crates, cartons and steel cargo containers. They must be on the opposite side of the building from where they met with Markus. Of course, that puts them on the opposite side from where the surveillance van is, too.

Gunfire erupts around them. Diana throws herself behind a stack of cartons, Neal landing almost on top of her. They disentangle themselves as more gunshots ring out. A bullet hits a pillar just behind them, powdering their hair in concrete dust. Diana reaches for her weapon, cursing when she remembers she doesn't have it.

"We can't stay here," she hisses urgently. There are more shots.

"There!" Diana follows Neal's pointing finger. Twenty yards away stands a steel cargo container, it's door invitingly ajar. Unfortunately the twenty yards are all open, leaving them clearly visible targets.

Diana hesitates, looking for a less dangerous path, as more concrete dust showers them.

"Just RUN!" Neal orders frantically, grabbing Diana's arm, propelling her across the open area towards the relative safety of the container.

Diana hears the sharp intake of breath as Neal practically lifts her into the inside of the container. She marvels at his skill as he quietly closes the steel door behind them, careful to not give away their location. He leans back against the wall, wheezing and panting, as Diana inspects their hiding place.

It couldn't be better, she thinks. The steel walls and door should protect them flying bullets, while two vents in the ceiling provide them with air, dim light and the ability to hear what's going on outside the container. The gunfire has stopped, replaced by the sounds of searching, and finally snippets of conversation.

". . .where they went?"

"No. You?"

". . .over . . . those cartons?"

". . . not now. . . . back door?"

Damn, Diana thinks, there's a back door? They could have run for that if they'd known.

Tense moments pass while they hear nothing but silence. Determining their searchers have given up and gone elsewhere, Diana turns to Neal. He is still leaning against the wall. She finds it odd that he is still panting, and that his forehead is beaded in sweat.

"Geez, Caffrey," she says teasingly, "maybe you should work out more. It wasn't that bad of a run."

Instead of the blinding smile or smart-ass comment she expects, Diana can't believe her eyes when Neal's knees buckle and he crumples to the dusty floor of the cargo container like a marionette with its strings cut.

She is on her knees next to him in an instant. In the murky light she can see a darker shadow on the back of his dark suit jacket. She reaches out; the shadow is wet to the touch. She feels frantically for a pulse. When she finds it, fast and uneven, she almost weeps with relief. She lifts up the back of his jacket and sees the spreading red stain around the bullet hole in his tailored shirt. He's losing a lot of blood, she realizes.

"Caffrey. Neal!" Diana shakes him, gently at first, then harder. Receiving no response, she gingerly turns him face up and smacks at his cheeks.

"Caffrey!" This time she gets a feeble moan in response. "Neal, open your eyes!" she orders, smacking his cheek once again. His eyes open, glassy and unfocused.

"Look at me, Neal." Slowly his eyes focus on Diana's face. "You were shot. Why didn't you tell me?" she asks angrily. She knows this is unreasonable, but her anger keeps the panic away. His hands and face are cold to the touch; his breath comes in wet, labored pants. She has to slow the bleeding and find help – fast.

". . .was afraid . . . you . . . mad," is Neal's labored answer.

"Well, you're right. I'm mad." She looks quickly around for something to apply pressure to the wound, even though she knows there is nothing. She shrugs quickly out of her jacket. "Neal," she explains, "I have to slow the bleeding." He nods, his eyes shutting again. "This is going to hurt. I'm sorry." Again a feeble nod, before his head falls to one side. "Neal!" she tries again, but there is no response.

As she slips out of her blouse, a random thought crosses her mind. This is going to be chilly.

ooOoo

Diana takes one last look at her unconscious patient before she exits the cargo container. She's done all she can for him. Her blouse is wrapped tightly around his torso, slowing the flow of blood. She hopes it's not too little, too late. His skin is gray and icy to the touch, his breathing is wet and rasping. She's scared – terrified, actually – but need and adrenaline give her strength.

She doesn't want to leave Neal alone, it feels wrong, even if he isn't aware of her presence, but she has little choice – she has to get to a phone. She searched through his jacket pockets after she finished with her makeshift bandage, finding his cell in the inner breast pocket. Unfortunately, she also found the bullet that had passed through Neal's body, embedded in the now useless cellphone.

The back door of the building is easy to find once you know where to look. As she steps out into the alley, she shivers in the dusk. It's almost night, and the warmth of the day has disappeared. It _was_ chilly without her blouse. Pulling her jacket tighter around herself, she heads to the right and the end of the alley.

Diana finds herself in the middle of a quiet, residential neighborhood full of bungalows and well tended yards. She sees no one on the street. She turns and heads for the closest house, hoping she can flash her badge before the homeowner shoots her – and runs straight into a Queens housewife pulling her grocery cart behind her.

"Hey! Watch where you're going" the woman barks as she regains her balance.

"FBI, ma'am," Diana says, "I need to use your phone. It's an emergency." She raises her arm and flips open her badge. The movement reveals a very nice lace bra, and nothing else, beneath her jacket.

"Listen, honey," the woman says, eying the agent with contempt. "We don't want your kind in our neighborhood. Go back to your corner."

Diana's carefully controlled emotions threaten to explode. All she can picture is Neal bleeding to death back in that warehouse while this woman accuses her of being a prostitute. Diana grabs at her arm, stopping the woman as she tries to get past her.

"My partner is seriously injured in that building over there. I need your phone to call for help. Now." Diana is horrified to hear the quiver in her own voice. She doesn't know whether it's from fear or from anger. It doesn't matter. Somehow Diana's plea has moved the housewife to look at the badge again.

She also sees the blood on Diana's hand and hears the emotion in her voice. She digs in her bag and silently hands Diana her cellphone.

Ten minutes later the alley and the street beyond are filled with emergency vehicles. Diana stands close by as the paramedics assess Neal's condition. For a horrible moment, looking at the motionless form, she thinks Neal is dead. She is relieved to see the medics spring into frantic action.

"Where are you taking him?" she asks as they rush by with Neal on the gurney.

"Manhattan Methodist. He needs a level one trauma center."

Diana watches as they load Neal into the ambulance. She starts to climb in but the paramedic stops her. "Sorry, but we need room to work." The door closes and the ambulance takes off in a cloud of diesel and flashing lights.

"I'll take you." Diana turns to see a young NYPD patrol woman standing behind her.

"Thanks," she says, climbing into the cruiser.

"Do you need me to call anyone?" The housewife who's phone she borrowed is looking at her.

Diana knows Christie is on duty at Manhattan Methodist.

"No, thanks, I'm good." The patrol car heads off after the ambulance.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Male, mid-thirties, GSW, upper-left abdomen, unresponsive . . ."

As soon as she sees her patient, Christie worries for Diana. She recognizes the tattered remains of the blouse used as a bandage and knows she must be nearby. As she works to assess her patient, her brain demands: _How did this happen?_.

"Did he come in with anyone?" she asks the triage nurse.

"No. FDNY brought him in solo."

_Diana must have come with someone else._

"I need their report!" Christie calls out as an alarm sounds and she must deal with Neal's plummeting blood pressure.

A nurse hurries in with the paramedic's notes.

"We need to find where he's bleeding from," Christie orders her team. They work feverishly over Neal's limp and bloody body.

_I hope she isn't waiting by herself._

Another alarm sounds as Neal coughs and gasps for breath.

_Neal isn't an agent; he doesn't carry a gun._

"We need to intubate!"

_Something had to have gone horribly wrong._

"Did the bullet hit his lung?"

_Neal laughs and jokes; he's a great cook._

"Can we do an MRI?"

_The anklet isn't there; they must have been undercover. I can't remember Di talking about a new assignment._

"No time! Do an ultrasound."

_Neal shouldn't be in her ER bleeding out._

"Read me what you've got," Christie orders the nurse with the report.

The nurse calls out the information as Christie watches the ultrasound.

"Name is Neal Caffrey, works with the FBI." Christie already knows this, of course, but she says nothing. "He was shot maybe 30 minutes before they got to him," the nurse continues. "Paramedic says another agent, Berrigan, slowed the bleeding. He was conscious for about 10 minutes after the injury."

The floor is slippery with Neal's blood. A tiny part of Christie wishes she could cry for her friend, but the doctor keeps working.

"There it is," she calls out. "Bullet nicked the spleen. Blood in the cavity is pressing on the lung. We need a chest tube!"

The trauma team works to insert the tube. As soon as it's placed, Neal's breathing improves.

_Diana was right there with him, she helped to save his life. How brave she was. How scared she must be now._

"We need to push fluids," she directs. "He needs to be stable enough for surgery. Let them know he's coming."

Christie and her team work. Neal's blood pressure stabilizes, he's intubated and whisked upstairs to surgery. With relief, she strips off her gloves and bloodstained scrub shirt. She grabs a fresh shirt for herself and another for Diana, just in case, and heads out to the ER waiting room.

She spies Diana, leaning against the wall near the ER entrance, watching the doors as if she stares hard enough she can make herself see through them. She's wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the NYPD logo.

"Di?" Christie says gently, touching her partner's arm.

Diana turns, a frightened look on her face. "Is he . . .?" She stops, changes the question. "How is he?"

"Let's go sit down," Christie suggests, guiding Diana to one of the doctor/patient conference rooms off the main ER waiting room. This is where they take you when they give you bad news, Diana thinks.

"It was rocky there for a while," Christie explains. "He lost a lot of blood." Diana looks down at her hands, remembering the feel of Neal's blood oozing over them. "You did good, slowing the bleeding the way you did." She gives Diana a reassuring smile. "We got him stable enough for surgery. When they open him up they'll know more." Diana cringes at the doctors choice of words; Christie tries to soften the tone. "They'll be able to see and repair the damage," she concludes gently.

"Is he going to be alright?"

"He's got the best surgeon in this hospital. I made sure of that." Christie gives Diana's hand a hard squeeze. "I think he's going to be just fine."

Diana heaves a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"It's what I do," Christie says simply. She hears noise out side the door. A nurse sticks her head in.

"Doctor, we need you in room two."

Christie stands, gives Diana a gentle kiss and heads for the door. "Someone will be here as soon as we know anything. Do you need anything?"

"A phone. I've got to make some calls."

ooOoo

Jones arrives before Diana has a chance to make her first call. She shoots him a startled look; he's here awfully fast.

"I was in the office when Hughes found out," he explains. Diana nods in understanding.

"So, how is he?" Jones asks cautiously.

"In surgery." The answer is short and flat. Clinton can tell Diana is avoiding the pain.

"He's going to be okay." Jones sits down in a chair near Diana. She nods in response.

"Was Peter in the office?" she asks.

"He was having dinner with Elizabeth."

Diana opens the cellphone Christie gave her, resignation clear on her face. She really doesn't want to make this call, not to Peter. Jones reaches out his hand to stop her.

"Don't worry. I called him before I left the office. I imagine he'll be here soon."

"Is he . . .?" Diana stops, mid-thought. Is he upset? Worried? Of course – it's only natural. He and Neal are friends. She looks across the small room at her friend.

"I didn't trust him," she says, so quietly Jones can hardly hear her.

"What?"

"Neal. I didn't trust him, Clinton." Her voice is louder now, filled with self-reproach. "He was late. He convinced Markus that he didn't care what happened to me – and he convinced me, too. I thought he was pulling something. I thought he was going to steal the manuscript for himself."

Jones holds up his hands, stopping her before she can continue. "It's understandable. He's a con man; a good one." He smiles, almost in spite of himself. "And his track record isn't the greatest."

"You trust him," Diana says bitterly.

Jones looks at her, apparently at loss for words. He can't explain how or why he trusts Caffrey. It's complicated.

"Neal kept Markus from killing me on the spot," Diana continues, needing to tell the whole story now. "He got me out of a locked room. He found a safe place for us to hide." There is no stopping her now. "He stayed behind me the whole time. I thought he was trying to get away with something, hide something. He was protecting me. He . . ." She stops, unable to go on. She looks at her hands, remembering the feel of Neal's icy skin – and of his warm blood.

"He had your back."

Peter Burke is standing in the doorway. The look on is face is anxious, worried, and yet so comforting Diana can barely hold back the tears that once again threaten to ruin her carefully built facade.

"Diana, tell me everything that happened, exactly as it happened," he directs her.

Diana regains her equilibrium as she methodically reports the events leading up to this moment. By the time she is through, she is once again the cool, collected FBI agent Peter knows she is.

"So, Timmerman let it all go to hell," Peter states. He paces across the small space to expend the nervous energy building inside him. "I am going to see he catches hell for this!"

"Boss," Diana begins.

"No!' Peter is emphatic. "He lost control of the whole thing," he continues. "Diana, you did what you had to; Neal did what he had to."

He stops as the door opens; Elizabeth and Mozzie have arrived. Elizabeth goes straight to her husband, enveloping him in a supportive hug.

"Hon," is all she says, it's all she needs to say.

El pulls away from her husband to look sympathetically at Mozzie, who hovers by the door, uncomfortable and uncertain. She reaches out her hand and tugs him into the room, into the circle of friends.

"So, how is he? Do we know?" El keeps holding Mozzie's hand.

"I talked to the nurse when I came in," Peter begins. "I guess it was pretty serious, but they got him to surgery. We should know more soon."

"Christie thinks he's going to be fine." Diana comes to Mozzie's other side.

"Christie's here?" Jones asks.

"She was on duty when they brought him in." Diana smiles. "I think she's still on, poor thing."

"Doctor Lady Suit is here?" Mozzie's look is piercing.

"Yeah, she took care of him," Diana says with pride.

"Good." Mozzie sits next to Jones.

Peter and Elizabeth sit side by side on the sofa across from Diana. The small room is now full.

"How long has it been?" Peter checks his watch, as if it might answer his question.

Diana looks at the clock on the wall. "About an hour," she says.

A knock startles them all. An aide sticks his head around the partially open door.

"Mrs. Burke?"

"Yes?" Elizabeth feels all eyes focusing on her.

"I found a bigger room for your group to wait in," the aide explains. "There's a room you can use off the surgical waiting area."

"I made a few calls before Mozzie and I came," El explains. "I thought we'd need a bigger room.

ooOoo

Hour two brings no news. Diana pages through one magazine after another; she seems unreasonably interested in an article titled _5 Easy Meals for Busy School Days_. Jones has taken control of the television remote, flipping monotonously from one station to the next, never staying on one for very long. Peter seems unable to stay still for more than a few minutes; he always needs another cup of coffee or to make one more phone call. Elizabeth stays close to Mozzie, occasionally they talk – most of the time they say nothing at all.

Sara Ellis quietly enters the room. Standing immobile, surveying the people gathered, she looks as elegant and sophisticated as ever in a designer suit and towering heels. Yet, somehow she looks lost and awkward, like she doesn't belong here among Neal's friends. Elizabeth smiles as Diana walks quickly to the other woman and speaks a few soft words. Soon they are seated next to one another. They don't talk – they wait.

Hour three, and time is suddenly the enemy. Frightened and fertile imaginations picture disaster in the surgical suite. Jones gives up the television to stand and stare out the window at the cityscape, watching the first gray hints of dawn on the horizon. Peter gives up both coffee and phone calls; instead he sits close to his wife. Tension fairly vibrates off him. Sara moves near Mozzie, they speak quietly together; she wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. Diana stares at the stubbornly closed door, willing someone with news, any news, to come in.

The door opens. Blake and another agent stand frozen by the sets of eyes focused on them, like deer in headlights. Jones invites them in with a wave of his hand. The three move to a far corner of the room and, for lack of any more pressing topic, discuss basketball.

Hour four is fast approaching when Christie enters the room, followed by a short, dark man who resembles a cross between Cheech Marin and Danny DeVito. From the white coat and surgical scrubs, this must be the "the best surgeon in the hospital." Not quite what Diana pictured, she thinks.

"This is Dr. Mendes," Christie introduces. "He's Neal's surgeon. I'm just here to interpret what he says into language you might actually understand." Christie smiles at Diana. If she's joking, maybe the news isn't horrible, Diana thinks.

"Do you mind if I sit down?" the surgeon asks with a tired smile. "It's been a long night." He finds a vacant chair and drops wearily into it. Looking around the room at the people gathered he smiles again. "There sure are a lot of you," he comments, "but law enforcement always stands vigil for one of their own."

Law enforcement? Diana actually has to hold back a chuckle. If he only knew.

"Doctor," Peter prods impatiently, "how is Neal?"

"Mr. Caffrey is one very lucky man. Once we stopped the bleeding and were able to see things clearly . . . Well, except for some muscle and soft tissue damage the bullet missed most everything but the nick in the spleen. I fixed that," the doctor says proudly. "I believe he should make a full recovery."

The relief sweeping the room was tangible.

"When can he have visitors?" Elizabeth asks hopefully.

"Not for a few hours, and then I'd like to limit it to family." Dr. Mendes looks thoughtfully around the room.

Christie does chuckle. In this room they are all Neal's family. "We'll sort it out," she assures the surgeon.

ooOoo

Peter and Mozzie are Neal's first visitors. They are as close to family as Neal appears to have. The visit is short but satisfying – Neal, even in his weakened and drugged state, is already flirting with the nurses.

Slowly their waiting room begins to empty. Blake and the other agent head to the office to share the good news about Neal's condition. Jones heads home to shower and change. Elizabeth needs to go home and let the dog out, though she promises she will be back as soon as she can. Sara explains that she needs to be in court that morning, but will be back the minute she is through testifying.

Peter, Diana and Mozzie are left alone. For a few minutes they just look at one another.

"Don't you think you should go home, get some sleep?" Peter suggests to Diana. "It looks like the worst is over."

"And I'd really like to put on some clean clothes," Diana agrees. "Christie should be off duty now."

On cue, the door opens and Christie comes in. "You can't go yet," she informs Diana. "I was just in to see our patient and he wants to see you. He was pretty insistent."

"Me?" Diana is flabbergasted. "Why does he want to see me?"

"He didn't tell me. But you really better go on up there, I don't think he's going to rest until he talks to you. And he needs to rest."

ooOoo

Diana is glad she knows Neal is doing well, because to her he looks awful. The room is filled with machines and IV's and they all seem to be attached to him. Surrounded by all this Neal seems pale and fragile – diminished somehow.

The smile, however, is all Caffrey.

"Hey, Neal!"

"Hey, Diana!" His voice is raspy and hard to hear. She pulls a chair up close to his head.

"How are you feeling?" Diana assumes he feels like crap.

"I feel," he draws a shaky breath. "I feel like I'm not dead. Thanks for that."

Thanks? That was the last thing Diana expected. Or wanted. If she had just trusted him . . .

"I didn't steal it," he continues.

"What?" She can't believe they are having this conversation, not now.

"I know you thought so."

"No, I . . ." His knowing look stops her. "Well, maybe it crossed my mind," she amends.

"I understand," he says quietly. He looks so exhausted, Diana just wants to end this .

"I would have thought so, too." Neal obviously isn't through yet.

"Neal," she says firmly, "you saved my life, too. I'm really sorry I didn't trust you. You were there when it mattered."

He is silent for so long, Diana wonders if he's fallen asleep. She gets up to leave.

"I guess I did save your life," he says with a grin. "So we're even?"

She smile back. "We're even," she agrees. "Now I'm going home. Go to sleep."

His eyes are already shut.


	3. Chapter 3

_Another unnecessarily long author's note: It's all my fault, I suppose. I meant this story to be complete after the first two chapters, but I forgot to check complete when I posted it. Then there were so many story alerts I figured I better come up with a chapter 3. I do make reference to Byron's _Don Juan_ in this chapter. If you aren't familiar with it, I recommend you at least check out the Cliff's Notes. It's a long poem. Byron has always been my favorite of the Romantic poets, the fact that Neal can recite him (in Upper Westside Story) is just icing on my cake!_

**Chapter 3**

"So, how much did you get for it?" Mozzie asks

"Get for what?" Neal turns away from the terrace wall, and walks slowly to the table where Mozzie sits enjoying a glass of dry Semillon in the afternoon sun.

"Get for what?" Neal repeats, carefully lowering himself into a chair across from his friend. He tries not to grimace as he leans back. He looks longingly at Mozzie's glass of wine before he sips water from the glass in front of him. He's still taking too many drugs to risk adding alcohol to the mix.

"The Byron pages," Mozzie explains enthusiastically. "You must have gotten quite a bit." The little man doesn't notice the dark frown forming on Neal's face as he continues merrily on. "Who'd you use as a fence?"

"No one,' Neal answers shortly.

"You still have them?" Mozzie looks quizzically across the table. "Are you keeping them for a while?" Realization lights his features. Neal has only been out of the hospital for a few days and is currently restricted to his apartment. Between that and the suit coming by every day . . .

"I can fence them for you. I can get you a good price. I know a guy . . ."

"I didn't steal them!" Neal's forceful response is marred by the fact that he has to grab at his tender midsection to offset the pain.

"Okay, okay!" Mozzie holds up his hands in capitulation. He watches as Neal breathes carefully in and out, his eyes closed.

"How are you feeling?" The question is sincere but ill-timed.

The blue eyes fly open. "I feel like someone shot me," Neal snaps, "and like someone else was rummaging around my internal organs!" The physical discomfort and the forced restrictions are making him a less than pleasant companion, Neal realizes.

"Sorry," he mutters, sounding like a petulant little boy.

"Believe me," Mozzie says, "I understand."

"Yeah, I guess you do." Neal smiles and takes another drink of water.

Mozzie sips his wine and stares at some point off in the middle distance.

"You can understand why I asked, can't you?" Apparently Mozzie is still fixated on _Don Juan_. "The Suit said Markus didn't have it on him when they arrested him; and Lady Suit said you were the last person who saw it."

"**Peter** told me they didn't find the pages when they arrested Markus," Neal says, "and I know **Diana** saw me with it. But I didn't steal it. I don't steal when I'm at work."

"Well, when do you steal?" Mozzie asks innocently, then hurries on to stop his friends objections. "Neal, you're a thief."

There eyes meet across the table for a long minute. Neal looks away first, raising a hand in defeat.

"Well, I didn't steal this," he concedes.

"Fair enough."

They sit on the terrace for a while longer, enjoying the sunshine and the view. Mozzie starts to pour himself another glass of wine, but stops, looking at his friend.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I'm just a little tired." Neal's whole body appears to be drooping. "I think I'll take a nap."

Mozzie makes sure his friend makes it safely to the bed, quietly closing the door as he leaves the sleeping man. He knows Suit and Mrs. Suit will be there to check on him later.

ooOoo

Peter and Elizabeth bring both dinner and diversion to their recuperating friend. They also bring Satchmo. The evening passes pleasantly; Neal beats Peter at chess (no matter how hard Neal tries to let him win), and Elizabeth and June chat while Satchmo and Bugsy glare at each other across the room. Peter makes sure Neal takes all his medications and is safely in bed before the couple leaves. Bugsy breathes a sigh of relief as he watches the big Lab's tail swish out the door, then lifts his leg to June's sofa.

Neal watches the light reflecting on the walls and ceiling of his apartment as he lies awake in bed. He is pleasantly tired and relatively pain free but the sleep he both wants and needs eludes him. The conversation with Mozzie loops over and over in his mind. The pages from _Don Juan, _written in Lord Byron's own hand, have disappeared. The value of those three fragile pages is almost inestimable, and the FBI doesn't know where they are. Even Arthur Markus, thief extraordinaire, doesn't know where they are. But Neal Caffrey, wounded FBI consultant, knows exactly what happened to them.

ooOoo

The days pass by in a comfortably boring blur. There are chess games with Mozzie, visits from Diana, Jones and Blake, dinners with June, Elizabeth and Peter. Sara drops by once, and even the awkwardness of that visit is offset by the pleasure of seeing her.

But the nights – the nights are haunted. Even though Neal is exhausted, sleep leads him on a merry chase. When he shuts his eyes he relives the mad dash with Diana through the warehouse as bullets fly around them. Diana's ministrations to him in the cargo container morph into Haidee nursing Don Juan back to health in the cavern. Only Haidee's sweet, fair face inevitably becomes Diana's stern one. Neal's eyes fly open. He'd get up and pace but it's too much like work in his present condition.

Neal's sleepless nights begin to affect his days. His doctor is concerned something else is wrong, and wants to re-admit him to the hospital for tests. That possibility causes Neal even more nightmares. Peter has another theory.

"Neal," the older man asks gently, "have you thought about seeing a counselor or a therapist?"

"What?" Neal responds with genuine horror. "Are you crazy?" The last thing he needs to do is talk about that day.

"You went through a very traumatic experience," Peter continues. "As far as I know, you've never been shot before." He gives his friend a chance to respond, shrugs when Neal says nothing, then continues. "You almost died. That's certainly enough to cause PTSD."

"I don't have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," Neal answers firmly. Neal knows what his problem is.

"Just think about it," Peter urges. The concern on his friend's face makes Neal look down and away.

The night that follows this conversation is the worst yet. Neal tosses and turns while visions of that day play over and over in his head. Maybe he does have a touch of PTSD, he admits to himself, which only makes his nightmares more realistic. He actually cries out in pain, which brings poor June running in to check on him. She sits with him, soothing and comforting, until he is able to feign sleep and June leaves him alone. He waits quietly until the morning comes. He knows what he has to do.

ooOoo

The sun streaming in the apartment windows seems a little brighter than usual to Diana. Maybe that's because it's Saturday and she and Christie both have the day off. They don't have any big plans, they both work, after all, but even the house cleaning and the laundry are better when they can do them together.

Christie is still in bed and Diana is just starting her second cup of coffee when her phone rings. Cursing under her breath, primarily so she doesn't wake Christie, she grabs the phone – and stares at the caller id in disbelief.

"Neal? Is everything alright?" He's only been out of the hospital for a week, Diana realizes. Does he need a doctor?

"Hey, Diana!" His voice sounds tired, but he doesn't sound like he's in distress. It's 7:30 a.m on a Saturday, she thinks. Her irritation returns.

"What do you want, Neal?"

"We need to go back to the warehouse in Queens," he says quickly. "I can't go by myself yet. Can you drive me?"

"What? Why?" Disbelief colors her voice.

"What's going on, Di?" Christie, now awake, sits down next to her at the table.

Diana covers the bottom of her phone with her hand.

"It's Neal," she explains.

"Is he okay?" Christie is all business.

"I think he's delirious."

"I can hear you!" Neal's voice calls from the phone.

"Put it on speaker," Christie suggests.

Diana places the phone on the table between them.

"Why do you need to go back to the warehouse?" Diana asks patiently.

"I rememb . . ." Neal stops, then starts again. "I need to go back there. I need to . . ." again the slight hesitation. "I need to do something. I can't go by myself yet."

Diana says nothing.

"Well, I could go by myself," he continues. "I could get a taxi to wait, I suppose."

"Neal, no!" Christie shakes her head vehemently. She looks at her partner and speaks quietly. "He really shouldn't go by himself, Di."

Diana sighs heavily. It's her day off. "Why me?" she asks him.

"Because." He sounds like a six year old. "Because of what happened," he finishes awkwardly.

_He saved me; I saved him._

"Okay, give me an hour," she tells him.

"Can't you come any sooner?"

"An hour, Neal." Diana closes her phone and turns to look at Christie. Christie just shrugs and smiles.

ooOoo

When Diana arrives at June's, Neal is still making his way uncertainly down the stairs, June hovering close behind. Diana takes over, helping him into the car. They travel the first few minutes in silence, mostly so Neal can catch his breath.

"Can't this wait?" she asks him when he recovers. "You look like shit."

"And good morning to you too!" is his caustic reply.

"Caffrey, what is . . ."

"I know where they are."

Diana glances over at him. "Where what are?" she asks, but she thinks she already knows.

"They Byron pages. I know where they are." Neal says it quickly, like ripping a band aid off a wound.

The car stops at a red light. "You stole them." She watches him carefully.

"No! Yes, well, not really."

Diana thinks she should pull over and arrest him right now. Or kill him. She drives on towards the warehouse.

"That's why you were late, wasn't it?" she asks. "You were casing the place."

"I was casing the place, looking for all the possible exits," Neal explains. "But I wasn't planning on stealing the manuscript." He gives her one of those blinding smiles. "I was casing the place because Agent Timmerman really is an idiot."

Diana smiles, too; she can't help herself. "He really is," she agrees.

"Then, when Markus made you, and it all went bad," this time his smile is sheepish, "well, I couldn't let him get away with those pages. So I lifted them."

"So why didn't you just turn them in?" They are crossing into Queens now, almost to their destination.

"I stashed them so they would be safe," he says easily. "Then there was the whole gunfire bit. And then I was shot!" It all makes perfect sense.

Diana parks the car outside the warehouse, cuts the engine, and looks Neal square in the eye.

"Caffrey, it's been over two weeks. You could have told us, told any of us, where the pages were hidden. But you didn't. You were going to steal them, weren't you?"

Neal meets Diana's accusation head on. "I thought about it. I thought about it a lot in the last two weeks. But I didn't." He raises his hand, then lowers it again. "There's something in me, Diana. It's like I'm genetically encoded to steal, to con. It's a rush, it's a high." He pauses to take a deep breath, and flinches slightly, unintentionally reminding Diana of his injury.

"Do you know anyone who's an alcoholic? Or addicted to gambling?" he asks her. "That's what it's like for me, all the time. It's like I have to steal – I have to con." Neal stops, he has nothing left to say.

_He saved me; I saved him._

Is this what Peter saw when he looked at Neal Caffrey? The kind, gifted, brave man who struggled every day to live a life everyone else lived naturally. The man who would willingly give up everything for the people he cared for. When it really mattered.

"Come on," Diana gets out of the car. "Let's go get those damn pages."

ooOoo

Neal had stashed the pages in an old, unused junction box. It is a long, slow walk there and back, but Diana doesn't interfere. She understands the need for Neal to do it himself. He actually sighs with regret when he places the pages in her safekeeping. Yes, he's always fighting the battle, she thinks.

She helps him back into her car; apparently all his energy has been expended on this little expedition. He falls asleep almost immediately after the car is in motion.

He doesn't wake when she stops the car in front of June's home. She wonders when the last time was he had a decent rest.

"Caffrey?" she calls out to him. There is no response.

"Neal?" Her voice is a little louder, but he still doesn't wake. Worried now that he's harmed himself by going on this little field trip, she prods him in the shoulder.

"Neal!" He blinks his eyes, mutters vaguely, shifts to a more comfortable position, and goes right on sleeping.

Laughing silently, she pulls out her phone and dials.

"Hey, boss," she says cheerily, "I need your help. I'm out in front of Neal's. He's sound asleep in my car and I can't get him out by myself."

She listens for a moment as Peter tries to sort out what she's saying to him.

"No, he's okay, I think." She glances fondly at her sleeping passenger. "We went back to the warehouse in Queens. Neal, uh, Neal . . ." She sputters to a stop, unsure of how to continue.

_He saved me; I saved him._

"Neal remembered what happened to the Byron manuscript. He called me because he knew I would know exactly what he was talking about."

She listens to Peter again for a minute.

"No, I don't think he planned on stealing them. He was shot, you know. I'm sure everything didn't come back to him at once."

_He saved me; I saved him._

"Yeah, we'll just be here in the car." Diana closes her phone, leans her head back, and smiles.


End file.
